“Did you yourself descend from the train at Vincovci?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I got down onto the platform as usual and stood by the step up into the train. The other conductors did the same.”

“What about the forward door – the one near the restaurant car?”

“It is always fastened on the inside.”

“It is not so fastened now.”

The man looked surprised; then his face cleared. “Doubtless one of the passengers opened it to look out on the snow.”

“Probably,” said Poirot.

He tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.

“Monsieur does not blame me?” said the man timidly.

Poirot smiled on him kindly.

“You have had the evil chance, my friend,” he said. “Ah! one other point while I remember it. You said that another bell rang just as you were knocking at M. Ratchett’s door. In fact I heard it myself. Whose was it?”

“It was the bell of Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff. She desired me to summon her maid.”

“And you did so?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Poirot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head.

“That is all,” he said, “for the moment.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc.

“Do not distress yourself,” said the latter kindly; “I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part.”

Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.

For a minute or two Poirot remained lost, in thought.

“I think,” he said at last, “that it would be well to have a further word with Mr. MacQueen, in view of what we now know.”

The young American appeared promptly.

“Well,” he said, “how are things going?”

“Not too badly. Since our last conversation, I have learnt something – the identity of Mr. Ratchett.”

Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. “Yes?” he said.

“ ‘Ratchett,’ as you suspected, was merely an alias. The man ‘Ratchett’ was Cassetti, who ran the celebrated kidnapping stunts – including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.”

An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen’s face. Then it darkened. “The damned skunk!” he exclaimed.

“You had no idea of this, Mr. MacQueen?”

“No, sir,” said the young American decidedly. “If I had, I’d have cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!”

“You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. MacQueen?”

“I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, Mr. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once – she was a lovely woman. So gentle and heartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett – or Cassetti – is the man. I’m rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn’t fit to live!”

“You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?”

“I do. I–” He paused, then added rather guiltily, “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.”

“I should be more inclined to suspect you, Mr. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer’s decease.”

“I don’t think I could do that even to save myself from the chair,” said MacQueen grimly. Then he added: “If I’m not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s identity, I mean.”

“By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment.”

“But surely – I mean – that was rather careless of the old man?”

“That depends,” said Poirot, “on the point of view.”

The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.

“The task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of every one on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand. It is only a matter of routine.”

“Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can.”

“I need hardly ask you the number of your compartment,” said Poirot, smiling, “since I shared it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure you had it to yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Now, Mr. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time of leaving the dining-car.”

“That’s quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform at Belgrade, decided it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is in the compartment next to mine. Then I fell into conversation with that Englishman, Colonel Arbuthnot – as a matter of fact I think you passed us as we were talking. Then I went in to Mr. Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of letters he wanted written. I said good tight to him and left him. Colonel Arbuthnot was still standing in the corridor. His compartment was already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come along to mine. I ordered a couple of drinks and we got right down to it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India and our own troubles with Prohibition and the Wall Street crisis. I don’t as a rule cotton to Britishers – they’re a stiff-necked lot – but I liked this one.”

“Do you know what time it was when he left you?”

“Pretty late. Nearly two o’clock, I should say.”

“You noticed that the train had stopped?”

‘Oh, yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying very thick, but we didn’t think it was serious.”

“What happened when Colonel Arbuthnot finally said good night?”

“He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor to make up my bed.”

“Where were you whilst he was making it?”

“Standing just outside the door in the corridor smoking a cigarette.”

“And then?”

“And then I went to bed and slept till morning.”

“During the evening did you leave the train at all?”

“Arbuthnot and I thought we’d get out at – what was the name of the place? – Vincovci – to stretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold – a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again.”

“By which door did you leave the train?”

“By the one nearest to our compartment.”

“The one next to the dining-car?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember if it was bolted?”

MacQueen considered.

“Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?”

“Why, no – I don’t think I did. I got in last. No, I don’t seem to remember doing so.” He added suddenly, “Is that an important point?”

“It may be. Now, I presume, Monsieur, that while you and Colonel Arbuthnot were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?”

Hector MacQueen nodded.

“I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Vincovci up to the time you parted company for the night.”

MacQueen drew his brows together.

“I think the conductor passed along once,” he said, “coming from the direction of the dining-car. And a woman passed the other way, going towards it.”

“Which woman?”

“I couldn’t say. I didn’t really notice. You see I was arguing a point with Arbuthnot. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn’t look, and anyway I wouldn’t have seen the person’s face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining-car end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she’d passed.”

Poirot nodded. “She was going to the toilet, I presume?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you saw her return?”

“Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn’t notice her returning but I suppose she must have done so.”

“One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. MacQueen?”